The Endless and The Immortal
by Ekat
Summary: There are beings in this Universe called Endless.  There are beings in this Universe called Immortal.  This is the story of how Death met Death and became friends.  (Highlander/Sandman x-over) NOW INCLUDES PART 6!!!
1. Part One

Disclaimer: Anything pertaining to Immortals and Immortality belong to DPP. Anything pertaining to the Endless or "Sandman" belongs to Neil Gaiman , Vertigo, and DC Comics. I just was re-reading the "Sandman" series and wondered what it would be like if Death met Death. 

Author's Note: If you have not read "Sandman" what are you doing sitting there reading this bit of fanfiction? Go out and read them! Now! Go! If you have read "Sandman" what are you doing reading this bit of fanfiction? Go back and read it again. It's much better than anything I could ever imaging up. If you have not seen "Highlander: The Series" what are you doing there reading this bit of fanfiction? Go find someone who has the series on video and watch them. If you have seen "Highlander: The Series" good for you, but what are you doing reading this bit of fanfiction? Go and watch it again.

Feedback: yes please, I crave it, I desire it, I need it.

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Part One: _In which Destiny comes to the world, Death meets an Immortal and a unique friendship ensues_.

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"Sometimes we can choose the path we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all."

Seasons of Mist by Neil Gaiman Episode 1, p. 23 panels 1-2

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A lone figure stood upon the hill of shifting sand. He was garbed in a long brown robe, the hood of which was pulled up, obscuring his eyes from the outside world. In his arms he held a great leather covered book. The book was fitted with a chain that was manacled to his wrist. Even if he wanted to, he could not put the book down. It was as much a part of him as he was a part of it.

Below him, he watched a scene play out. A band of thieves and cutthroats had come upon a lone man walking in the desert. The man was fighting against the marauders but the odds were not in his favor. As the man continued to fight for his life, the observer bent down and drew a figure in the sand. It started as an oval from the bottom of which he drew a single line. He then crossed the line. The figure he drew was an ankh.

As he drew, he spoke. "Sister, I stand not in my gallery but I draw your sigil upon the sand. Would you join me?" With a sound of rustling wings, he found himself accompanied by a woman. He stood up and looked at her. Her long black hair was braided down her back. She wore a gown of a blue so deep that it appeared black. As always she was clothed in the height of style, this time being the long gowns preferred by the women of Babylon. Around her neck she wore a gold collar, from which a small gold ankh was suspended. Her smile was warm and genuine.

"Destiny, what causes you to be out of your garden? In all of our existence, I can't remember a time when you left your realm," she asked him.

"A moment of great importance is about to occur, my sister. The like of which will not occur again, ever, and I felt the urge to witness it first hand," he replied, the tone of his voice giving no indication of emotion.

A highly manicured eyebrow rose on his sister's face. "Oh?"

"Look below," he said motioning with his unshackled hand towards the skirmish in the sands.

"So? I see men fighting. None of them are to enter my realm today, why call me? Shouldn't this be something for our youngest brother to witness, it's really more his territory." She crossed her arms in front of her and watched the men.

The hooded figure smiled at his sister. "There is no need to call Destruction. I just thought you might be interested in seeing this. The one who defends shall be denied your realm for quite some time. He is one of the new creations," he explained.

She looked up at her brother quizzically. "New creations?" she asked. He nodded at her. Realization slowly crept across her face, "Oh, one of THEM." She returned her attention back to the men. In silence the siblings stood upon the dune and watched.

One of the attackers ran his sword through the traveler, causing him to cry out in pain and fall to the ground, lifeless. Quickly the thieves ransacked the dead man's belongings and person for anything of value and left.

"I must meet this man," the woman said and disappeared.

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A rush of air filled his lungs, burning him as he tried to breathe. He opened his eyes only to see nothing but his long black hair obscuring his vision. He pushed his hair out of his face and cried out in surprise. Kneeling over him was a beautiful woman. Her skin as pale as alabaster, her hair as black as midnight, her eyes as blue as the sky. An amused smile played across her sensual lips. He tried to speak, to say something witty and charming to this creature of heaven. Instead, all he could do was cough.

"Here," the mysterious woman said, "let me help you sit up." The world swam as he tried to sit up too fast. He let out a groan as his reality protested its new orientation. "Careful now."

Once the world had righted itself, he looked up at the woman and gave her, what he hoped was his most charming smile. "What brings a beautiful woman like you to my side in the middle of the desert?" he asked her.

"Destiny," she replied cryptically. That was definitely not the answer he expected. He examined the woman more closely. Her features were striking but not out of the ordinary. She appeared to be fairly young, but he had the feeling that she was much older than she looked. "Are you alright, Methos?" she asked.

He began to tremble. He had not told her his name. Only one of the gods or Endless would know who he was without asking. His eyes fell upon her necklace, and he felt the color drain from his face. He looked down at his tunic to find it stained with blood. His blood. He looked up and into her eyes. 

"I know you," he said. "You're Death. You've come to take me to the lands of the Sunless Shore."

She smiled warmly at him. "Yes, Methos, I am Death, but… "

"I'm dead," he whispered, interrupting her.

"No you're not, you're…" she started but was interrupted again.

"But I was stabbed. You're here before me. How can I not be dead?" Confusion was written clearly on his strongly chiseled face.

"As I was saying before you interrupted me," Death continued, "I am Death, but I have not come for you. Not today, anyway."

"I-I-I don't understand," Methos stammered, more confused than ever. 

"You are one of the Creator's latest creations," she said. "What is to become known as an Immortal. Which I find highly amusing because nothing is truly immortal. Not even Us. Soon one like you will come and teach you the ways of your new life. I only came here today because I wanted to meet one of your kind. I was curious."

"I'm immortal but not immortal. You talk in riddles," he complained, shaking his head as if doing so would make the things she said make sense.

Death laughed. Not a cold and calculating laugh like he expected, but a warm, honest laugh that indicated that she found what he said humorous. "You think I'm bad, you should meet my siblings. You try getting a straight answer out of Destiny. Or worse yet, Delirium. Come, Methos, let us walk together. Tell me about yourself. What brought you out to the middle of nowhere and all alone?" She helped him to his feet and together they began the journey across the sands to the city of Ur.

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Destiny stood watching his eldest younger sister walk away with the man. He opened his great book and read a page to himself.

And so it came to pass that Methos awakened into his Immortality and, with the intervention of Destiny, Death was there to greet him. A friendship was born that was to last for millennia.

Destiny closed his book; satisfied that what was to happen, happened. He smiled. With that thought, he returned to his garden.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Part Two

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Part Two: _In which a quickening occurs, Death returns and questions are answered_.

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"We do what we do because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves."

The Kindly Ones by Neil Gaiman Part 11, p. 24 panel 4

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Lightning. All he could see was lightning. It surrounded him, it consumed him. It hurt. 

It had been two hundred years since he had come into his Immortality but this was his first Quickening. There were still few enough Immortals in the world that it was easy enough to avoid them. 

The man, who lay decapitated at his feet, had come riding into the town, seeking him. Methos had heard of "Hunters" but had not expected to be the prey of one. But he was a warrior at heart and had been trained well by his teacher. The victory was an easy one.

When the lightning had stopped, he collapsed to the ground, head bent low and chest heaving as he tried to force air into his lungs. He knelt next to his opponent's body, hands on knees for support, willing the world to stop spinning before his eyes.

He looked up when he heard a woman's laughing voice. "So, here I am looking up an old friend, and how do I find him? Trembling like a minute old kitten next to a decapitated corpse."

The woman who spoke to him, squatted down next to him. Her long black hair fell in waves down her back. She was clothed in a finely made black dress similar to those he had seen the women of the upper nobility wear. Around her neck she wore a gold collar, from which dangled a small golden ankh.

"Have you come to claim me?" he asked her, still panting.

"I told you once, Methos, my friend, I am Death, but I do not come for you," she said trying to reassure him. Then, almost as an afterthought she added, "Not yet anyway."

"So what brings you back to me after two hundred years?" he demanded, a cold hatred in his eyes.

She pulled back from him, surprised by the look on his face. "I came to see you and how you were doing."

"Why?" he spat at her, the coldness in his eyes growing more intense.

"You're my friend. I don't have many of those," she said quietly, trying not to let the hurt she was beginning to feel color her voice, "not even within my own family." He snorted as if not surprised by the statement. Grim determination settled onto Death's face. "Obviously I was mistaken in my assessment of you and our relationship. I'll leave you in peace then." She stood up and turned her back toward him. "If I were you," she called back over her shoulder, "I would not dally around the body of a dead man very long, especially holding the sword that killed him. Goodbye, Methos." She then turned and began to walk away, knowing that if she stayed she would most likely say something she would later regret. 

"Wait," he cried out, reaching his trembling hand out towards her. 

She stopped, and turned around to face him, crossing her arms in front of her. "What?" she asked, her voice holding a touch of annoyance, her eyes demanding that his answer be a good one.

Methos dropped his hand, exhausted by just the effort of raising it. He looked up at her, exhaustion and helplessness warring with pride in his expression. She could see that he needed help but did not know how to ask for it, and her face softened. She uncrossed her arms and walked back over to him. "Come on," she said, putting a hand under his arm and helping him to his feet. "We had better get you out of here before someone sees you." 

Still shaking from the Quickening, Methos found he could not stand on his own. Death placed his arm across her shoulder, encouraging him to lean on her for support, and guided him back to his home.

When they reached the house, Death helped him into a wooden chair at the small table and fetched a cup and a skin of wine. She poured the wine into the cup and handed it to him. He took it with trembling hands and drained it. She calmly refilled it for him and then sat down in the chair opposite him.

He sat there holding the cup, waiting for the shaking to stop. Eventually he looked up at her. "Why now?" he asked.

"Why now what?" she asked as she surveyed the contents of the Immortal's home. It was sparsely furnished and the decorations were minimalistic but it had a cozy feel to it. It was not something that she could see herself spending large amounts of time in, but she could see the charm of the small dwelling.

"Two hundred years it a bit long between visits, isn't it? Even for the likes of us?" he observed, he voice becoming steadier as his body assimilated the power of the Quickening he just took.

She stopped her visual inventory of his home, looked at him and smiled at him. "Well, you were a little busy learning what it meant to be an Immortal. I didn't want to interrupt your training." 

He shook his head, not accepting her answer. "How many times have you come into my life without showing yourself? At least twice that I know of. You came for my wives."

"Methos," she said, her voice and features softening. "You know I couldn't let you see me then. You would have begged me not to take them to my realm. I couldn't do that to you, or them. They needed to go, and you needed to stay."

"But my last wife, Sahar, she was so young when you took her," he protested.

"She got what everyone gets," Death explained. "A lifetime. For some, that lifetime is calculated in minutes, others in centuries."

"And how is mine to be calculated?" he asked offhandedly.

She smiled at him. "You know that I cannot tell you that. That would be cheating. Besides, only my brother knows what is in a man's future."

"Ah yes, Destiny," Methos muttered sarcastically. He looked back up at her. "You never answered my question. Why now?"

"I needed a break," she sighed. "I needed to talk to someone who I considered a friend, but was not a member of my family. I've been busy lately. My brother has discovered the art of war and has been having a grand and glorious time with it. This has caused my workload to increase by quite a bit."

"Destiny has discovered war?" Methos asked, his voice colored with disbelief.

"No, not Destiny. Destruction. He wasn't content just causing the occasional earthquake or making a flash flood that would wipe out entire villages. No, he had to go and play with people," she groaned.

Methos smiled. It was times like this that he had trouble seeing the woman before him as Death. She spoke and acted like any human being he had ever encountered. Perhaps a bit more independent and opinionated, but still human.

"How many siblings do you have?" he asked and drained the contents of the cup that he still held. He was curious about the beings known as the Endless, but he had never found much information about them.

"There are seven of us all told. In order," she said counting out the Endless on her fingers, "there is Destiny, yours truly, Dream, Destruction, the twins Desire and Despair and, lastly, youngest sister Delirium. She used to be known as Delight, but she couldn't understand or handle change in any fashion and she went mad from it." 

"I can understand that, change is hard for many to accept," Methos remarked reaching for the wineskin to refill his cup. "Tell me, is it true that you were here before the world was formed?" He held up the skin towards her to offer her a drink. 

She held up her hand to politely decline the beverage. "Yes," she said casually and looked out of the small window at the purples and reds that were filling the evening sky. "And we will be here after the world ends. That is why we are called the Endless. Though, like calling your kind Immortals, it's a misnomer. We can end." Methos thought he saw a sadness fall into her eyes. But before he could double check, she stood and walked over to the window, leaned against the sill and looked out into the night. "If one of us dies," she continued but refusing to look at him, "something or someone else takes our place. Assuming the responsibilities, memories, appearances and actions of the one who is gone. We have only had to deal with replacing a sibling once, a long time ago." She turned back around to look at him. "So you see, I understand about the pain that comes when you loose a loved one. That's why I couldn't reveal myself to you when I came to take your wives. I couldn't face the pain. This friendship thing is new to me and I didn't realize just how much it would effect me. It was bad enough seeing you without you seeing me." 

He nodded and met her gaze, understanding written in their golden depths. Death blinked her eyes and all traces of melancholy vanished from her face. "So, enough about me, tell me about you," she said, her voice, once again light and full of laughter. She sat back down at the table across from him and leaned in with a conspiratorial smile on her face. "What's it like being an Immortal?"

Methos laughed. He knew a change of subject when he saw one and played along with the game. He leaned in as well, as if what he was about to say was a huge secret that even she shouldn't be told. "It's been interesting. I mean, I can't die. But of course, you knew that." She nodded, smiling. "I also don't get sick, which proved a little problematic when a village I was living in got hit by the pox and I was the only one not to catch it. I had never been called a demon before."

Death leaned farther in and beckoned him closer with her index finger. When he came closer she whispered, "I have a feeling it won't be the last time you're called one."

He laughed. "Of that I have no doubt. Another fringe benefit to Immortality is that I also heal quickly. Watch!" Methos drew his hunting knife from his belt, set the blade against the palm of his other hand and dragged it across the flesh, leaving a wide and bleeding wound. Death sat there, eyes wide with delight, fascinated by what she saw. As soon as Methos removed the blade from his palm, the cut began glowing with little blue sparks. Using his sleeve, he wiped away the blood and Death could see that the cut had healed, not even leaving a scar as proof that the injury had even existed.

"Oh wow. That must make for a great conversation at parties."

"It's not exactly something I go around showing off," as he wiped away the last traces of blood from his palm. "I'm trying to keep the whole 'demon' idea to a minimum."

Death nodded in acceptance and leaned back in the chair. "So what's the deal with the lightning and stuff that I saw earlier? I see it every time I come to guide one of your kind to the other side, but when I ask," she said, a small, but playful pout danced on her lips, "none of your fellow Immortals want to talk to me when the finally get to see me."

"And do you blame them?" Methos teased. "You're not exactly someone that people what to see on a good day. But to an Immortal who just lost a challenge, you're about the last person they'd what to have a heart-to-heart with." Death grinned and stuck her tongue out at him. He returned the expression before he continued. "The lightning you saw is called a 'Quickening'. When one Immortal comes across another one, they fight to the death. And the only way to kill us is by cutting our heads off. The victor of the battle received his opponent's Quickening, his life force, and his power. It is said that one day, all the Immortals will be drawn to a single location to fight it out for the prize. This is called the Gathering. We fight because we know that in the end, there can be only one."

"And what's the prize?" she asked, leaning forward on the table again, engrossed in his story.

Methos shrugged. "No one knows. Some say it's control over the world. Some say it's mortality. Some say it's the ultimate Immortality, that even taking our heads won't kill us."

"So if you can't die even by beheading does the winner of this 'prize' grow a new head or do they just walk around headless?" Death asked, her eyes dancing with amusement at the thought of a headless Immortal wandering the streets. 

Methos shrugged. "I have no idea. Like I said, it's a theory."

"And which one do you think it is?" she asked, raising one of her highly manicured eyebrows at him.

Again he shrugged. "No idea. But I'm intrigued enough to want to stick around and find out."

Death laughed. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

"But I've already had nine lives come and go. Thus proving I'm not a cat." He sat up straight, and pointed to his puffed out chest, "I'm an Immortal. And who says that I can't be the one?"

"Only Destiny can answer that question, my friend. And I won't ask it of him, not even for you," she said pointing at him 

Methos smiled at her. "I understand. No man should know his own destiny. I'm content to just go along for the ride and see where things take me."

"That's a good attitude to have." She reached across the table, took his hand in hers and squeezed it. She then let go of him and stood up with a sigh. "Well, my friend, I really must be going, duty calls. I have enjoyed our chat."

He stood up as well, the smile on his face betrayed by the disappointment in his eyes. She could see that he didn't want her to leave. "So have I. I look forward to our next visit. Can we try to make it sooner than two hundred years?"

She smiled. "I'll try." She walked over to him, raised herself up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. As she pulled away, she disappeared. Methos reached up and touched his cheek. He laughed to himself. "Who would ever believe that one of my closest friends is Death?"

TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Part Three

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Part Three: _In which Despair makes a visit and a nightmare is unleashed on the world_

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"He's gotta be the tragic figure standing out in the rain, mourning the loss of his beloved."

Brief Lives by Neil Gaiman. Chapter 2 panel 4

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The tribe was dead. Everywhere Methos looked he saw the bodies of friends and family. For the past ten years he had lived with them. They had taken him in and made him one of them. But now they were all dead. 

Out of nowhere a band of raiders came and attacked the small caravan in the desert. But to the last person, the raiders slaughtered the tribe and took their valuables. From the freshness of their tracks, Methos judged that he had revived shortly after they left.

He stumbled among the remains of the tribe until he saw one particular body. He collapsed to his knees next to Inianni, his wife of three months. Her tunic was stained with blood, her blood. Her throat had been slashed deeply. Her beautiful brown eyes stared lifelessly into space. Methos picked up her limp body, cradled it in his arms and allowed himself to weep.

"Why her?" he cried into the silence. "Can't you just once, let me have someone for a lifetime?" He buried his face into Inianni's chest and wept.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't need to look up to know who stood beside him.

"But you had a lifetime," a soft female voice said. Methos looked up into the face of Death with a cold hatred.

"All right, I'll be more specific. How about twenty, thirty years with the woman I love? To be with her while she grows old. Is that too much to ask of an old friend?" He spat the last word. "A thousand years should surely count for something."

Death looked down at the woman in his arms. "You're right it should. But, I cannot return her to you. She is in the afterlife now. Not even I have the power to return someone from there."

"You could take me to her," he stated. 

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I have not come to take you. Not yet anyway."

"Then what good are you?" He returned to cradling and rocking the body of his wife, refusing to look at his companion any more.

Death stood there, her long black tunic flapping in the wind, looking down at her friend. She hated to see him like this. Destiny had warned her a long time ago about the dangers of befriending people. She would have to one day fulfill her role and take them or their loved ones. But there was one thing that none of her siblings would ever understand: Death was lonely. Methos had come to fill a void in her life, no matter how painful that it could be at times. She needed him and the visits they shared every couple hundred years.

Something moved just on the edge of her sight. She turned her head to see a short, fat, naked woman sitting roughly 100 paces from where Methos knelt. Death knew that Methos could not see her, but he was definitely influenced by her presence.

The woman's black hair, which was pulled behind into a severe knot, contrasted sharply against her ghost white skin and sunken eyes. She was wearing a ring with a sharp hook on it and was dragging the tip of the hook across her chest, causing streams of blood to run down her torso. Every time she pierced her flesh, Death felt Methos' anguish grow deeper.

Death walked over to the woman. "Despair, what are you doing here?" she demanded.

"This one has entered my realm now, eldest sister," Despair replied, dragging the hook along her right cheek, causing Methos' sobs to become louder and harder.

"I want you to leave him alone," Death said, glaring down at her. "He belongs to me."

Despair laughed. It was not a comforting laugh. "You? He does not belong to you. He is among the living and does not die. Therefore he does not belong to you. When he discovered his wife's body, he became mine."

Death squatted down so that she could look her sister in the eyes. "You listen to me, Despair. I want you to take your hook out of my friend. Now. You have tormented him enough. Let him have some peace."

Despair met Death's eyes. "He is mine now. And you do not have the power to take him from my realm. He's not to enter yours any time in the near or distant future. So back off, Death."

"You're right," the older of the two siblings said. "I don't have the power to take him. But that doesn't mean you will keep him. This is not over, Despair." With a rush of wind and a sound of beating wings, Death disappeared, leaving Methos alone with Despair.

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Within every realm of the Endless is a room. On the walls of the room are items to represent each of them. A replica of Destiny's book, a silver Ankh for Death, the bone helm of Dream, a reproduction of Destruction's sword, a glass heart for Desire, a copy of the hook of Despair, and a swirl colors to represent Delirium.

It was the bone helm that Death looked upon as she stood in her gallery. Carefully she removed it from the frame and held it before her. "I stand in my gallery and I hold your sigil in my hands. Brother I need your help. Will you join me?"

Between one beat of the heart and the next she found herself joined by her eldest younger brother. She smiled warmly at him as she place his helm back in its frame.

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"Sister, this is a rare occurrence indeed. It is not often that you call me for aid. What can I do for you?" His voice was deep and dark, as only the voice of the Dream King would be. She looked up at him and met his eyes of endless stars. He stood a head taller than her, but like her, his skin was pure white and his hair was the color of a starless sky at midnight. He was thin, almost gaunt in stature, with sharp facial features. Around his body swirled a cloak of black that was fastened at his throat by a large ruby broach. 

"You know of my friend, Methos?" she asked him. Dream nodded. "Well, recently, I had to guide his tribe to the other side. He is now all-alone. As a result he has fallen into the hands of our sister."

"**And what do you wish me to do about it?"** Dream asked emotionlessly.

Death found her voice growing soft and she looked down at her feet. "I can't stand to see him suffer like he is. I've begged Despair to set him free, but you know how she is. I have no power to remove him from her realm." She looked back up at her brother. "Would you take him out of her realm for me? Give him a dream that will let him leave Despair behind. Please."

Dream looked down at his older sister and smiled**. "You know that I can't deny you anything. When he next comes to the Dreaming, I will ask him about his dreams and do my best to make it so that our sister will take her hook from his heart."**

A large and heartfelt grin spread across Death's face. She reached up and wrapped her arms around her brother's neck, drawing him in for a hug. "Thank you," she said. Dream stood there for a moment, uncomfortable with his sister's display of emotions, but understanding her need for it. After a minute he broke away from her.

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"I will do what I can," he said and vanished back to the Dreaming. Death smiled to herself, a great weight removed from her soul. Dream would do the right thing. She knew he would.

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Methos found himself standing in an oasis. He couldn't recall how he had arrived there. The last thing he remembered was burying his tribe and setting off across the desert, vowing revenge on those who had killed his family.

"Where am I?" he asked himself aloud.

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"You are in the Dreaming," a deep male voice said behind him. Methos spun around to come face to face with a man. But he was unlike any man he had ever seen before. His features reminded him of someone. The white skin, the dark hair, the otherworldly look in his...star-filled eyes? He was one of the Endless.

"Who are you?" Methos demanded.

The black cloak that covered the man began fluttering as if being played with by a wind that Methos could not feel. **"I am Master of all you see. I am Lord Shaper. I am the Master of Stories. I am the Creator of Nightmares. I am Morpheus." **Suddenly the cloak stopped moving. **"But you may call me, Dream."**

"What do you want with me, Dream-King?" Methos asked, fear coloring his voice slightly.

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"You have nothing to fear from me, Methos. I have met you here as a favor to my sister," Dream said, trying to reassure the man before him.

"Your sister," Methos said, realizing whom the Dream Lord spoke of. "Hasn't Death done enough to ruin my life? Ever since I met her, she had done nothing but take those I love away from me."

Dream shrugged. **"That is her reason of existence. She is Death, after all. She cannot help who she is anymore than the rest of us can. But for some reason she has grown to care for you and has asked me to help you find a dream that would help you break free of Despair."**

Methos was shocked to hear that Death would go to such lengths for him. Perhaps he had been too hard on her. "She did?"

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"Yes she did. I told you, she cares for you. So tell me, Methos, what do you dream of?"

A cold and hard look formed in the Immortal's eyes. "Vengeance," he said flatly. "I dream of returning the actions on those that killed my friends and family. I dream of them quaking in their boots at the sight of me bearing down on them. I dream of introducing them to your sister." He looked up at Death's brother. "That is what I dream of Lord Shaper. Can you fulfill my dream?"

Dream stood there for a moment, staring at the man before him. His voided eyes bearing in and looking at Methos' soul. "**Very well," **he said at last. "**I can see that is truly is your dream and that it will allow you to rid yourself of your despair. You shall have it. Let me tell you something though. Someone once said, be careful what you wish for, for you just might get it. But as a favor to my sister, I will grant you your dream."**

As Methos stood there, absorbing all that he had just been told, Dream vanished.

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Methos awoke the next morning with a lighter heart. No longer was he ruled by the pain and hurt from the loss of his loved ones. Something had happened in his dream, but the memory of it was slipping away like sand through a clutched fist.

As he gathered his things so that he could continue on his journey, one thought ran through his mind. Revenge. He would have it, no matter the cost.

Shortly after midday, he felt the presence of another Immortal. He saw a mounted figure approaching him. Carefully, Methos set his belongings down in the sand and drew his sword.

"I am Methos, and I have no wish to fight you," he said when the rider reached him. The rider pulled his horse to a halt and looked down at Methos. 

A broad grin broke across the stranger's scarred face. "I am Kronos, and I had a dream about you," he said.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. Part Four

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Part 4: _In which old friends clash and a dream ends_.

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"But the price of getting what you want is getting what you once wanted."

Dream Country by Neil Gaiman "A Midsummer Night's Dream" p.19, panel 3

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Death and Destruction stood in the middle of the remains of a trading caravan. Everywhere they turned they were greeted with carnage. 

"This is all your fault, you know," Destruction said to his eldest sister, his brown eyes surveying the wreckage. Death spun around to face him, appalled by his accusation. 

"Mine?" she asked placing her hand on her chest for emphasis. "How could this possibly be my fault? I'm Death remember? No, baby brother," she pointed at him, "this has you written all over it."

Destruction laughed the full-bodied laugh of pure amusement. The sun gleamed off of his highly polished armor, causing the bronze bull heads on either shoulder to glow. His long red head fell past his shoulders and swayed as his body shook with laughter. "You are mistaken, sister mine. I had no part in this," he said waving his hand over the carnage. "A friend of yours is responsible for this."

Death took a step back in disbelief. "A friend of mine?"

He motioned his hand towards the band of raiders. "See for yourself." Her gaze followed to where he pointed. There amidst the marauders stood a thin, yet muscular man in white. His shoulder-length black hair was windswept but framed his war painted face.

"Methos!?" she gasped, shocked. She looked up at her brother. "What is he doing here?"

"He's been the mind behind the Horsemen for over a thousand years," Destruction explained.

"But, but, but…" Death stammered. "I saw him 300 years ago and he was living life of a scholar in Greece." 

The large being beside her shrugged. "Perhaps he was taking a break. But for the better part of a thousand years he has lived the life of 'Death'. I do not have hold of him, my sister. No, his brothers Kronos and Silas are mine."

"What about the other one? Caspian?" Death asked, eyeing the thin Horseman. At that moment a face poked out from behind the Immortal and waved at them. "Delirium, of course," she said. Their youngest sister stepped away from the group of Immortals and walked over to where they stood, leaving a trail of pink and purple polka-dot frogs behind her.

"_Hi tHErE_," Delirium said. Her hair was a rainbow of colors that constantly changed lengths and colors as she talked. Her mismatched blue and green eyes were full of laughter and her clothing was an odd assortment of colors and cultures that some how looked right on her. "_I'm HaVinG fUn. THE anGry man THinKs aLL KinDS of InTErESTinG ThouGHTs. RiGHT noW WE aRE TRyinG To THinK of a Way To KiLL an ImmoRTaL. ISn'T THaT funny? HoW Can you KILL SOmETHinG THaT CannoT diE? BUT WE Can diE, Can'T WE? And WE aRE EnDLESS. DESpaiR diEd and noW WE HavE a nEW SiSTER. I don'T LiKE iT WHEN THingGS Go aWaY_." As the youngest of the Endless spoke, her words turned into multicolored fish that swam around her head. She quickly became captivated by the school swimming around her and began to play with them.

Death smiled at her sister before turning back to her brother. "All right. I can understand Caspian. And you say that Kronos and Silas are under your control. So into who's realm has Methos fallen?"

Destruction looked down at her from the corner of his eye. "Haven't you figured it out yet? He's still living the dream you asked our brother to make for him over a millennium ago."

"What?!" Death exclaimed in surprise.

Destruction turned his head and looked fully down at his sister, an amused smile playing across his lips. "You asked Dream to get him away from Despair. Well, he did. He made the dream that Methos needed to survive. Only Methos has embraced the dream to the point that the dream has become his life."

Death rose herself up to her full height, grim determination set on her face. "Well, it's going to stop here and now." With that she disappeared.

Delirium looked up at her older brother with a smile as Death vanished. "_I WanT To Go HavE dinnER aT THE BoTTom of THE oCEan and EaT PaiSLEy fLavoRED icE cREam_."

Her brother looked down at her and smiled. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, lass. Why don't we both go." The two vanished in a swirl of wind and colors, leaving the band of Immortals to their own devices.

**********************

Methos strode across the camp of the Horsemen to inspect his horse before riding out on the morning's raid. Everywhere he looked he saw fear and terror written in the eyes of the slaves who tried not to look at him. It was just the way he liked it. He stopped suddenly, surprised by an emotion he had not seen expressed towards him in centuries- pity and, perhaps, disappointment. When he looked back, the eyes that caught his attention were gone. 

He scanned the group of people before him, desperately searching for the owner of the mysterious blue eyes. He saw a slender woman dressed in black walking away from him. He strode purposefully towards her. When he was within range, he reached out and grabbed hold of her arm. "And just where do you think you are going, my pet?" he sneered at her. The woman turned and looked at him. The sight of her face caught him by surprise and he released his grip on her. "You!" he exclaimed. "Have you finally come for me?"

"No, I have not come for you. Not yet anyway," Death said offhandedly as she glared at him.

"Then, what are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Realizing I made the biggest mistake of my entire existence," she snapped. 

Methos took a step back from her in surprise. She stood before him in clothing that was the exact replica of those he wore, only in the deepest black rather than purest white, and her eyes, which were lined in black with what looked like the Eye of Horus decorating her right one, held cold contempt. She stood with her hands on her hips, radiating anger. 

"You're expecting me to believe that you make mistakes?" He snorted in disbelief. "You're one of the Endless, you can't make mistakes."

"That's what I once thought. But looking at you right now has made me see that I can." 

"I don't understand," he said, fighting to keep the anger he felt rising in check. She was not giving him a straight answer and it was beginning to annoy him.

"What's happened to you?" Death asked softly, a sadness that Methos could only describe as pity flashing briefly in her eyes. 

"What do you mean?" he asked placing both palms on his chest. "I'm perfectly fine," he spread his hands out in front of him, "wonderful in fact. Things couldn't be better. The world trembles when it hears our names. Villages flee when they hear that my brothers and I are coming. What could possibly be wrong with that?" he laughed.

Death reached out and grabbed a hold of the collar of Methos' tunic. He yelped in surprise at her strength as she pulled him down so that she could look him in the eye. "Who are you and what have you done to my friend?" she demanded.

He struggled to break free of her grasp to no avail. "Let go of me, woman. Do you have any idea who I am?"

Death let go and shoved him away, causing him to trip and fall over backwards. He looked up at her in surprise as he sat in the sand with her towering over him. "I used to think I knew you. You were my friend, Methos," voice sounded like she was almost begging him to understand her. "You were a kind and compassionate man who fought only when necessity demanded and then only for survival. But now… now… you have become a monster." She spat the last word and stood there shaking in rage.

"A monster am I?" he asked rising back to his feet. "I am no more a monster than you." His anger broke loose and he leaned in to meet her eye to eye. "Like you, I deliver a release from life, except for those that are destined to serve me. If you don't like what you see then you need to take a good look at your own soul. I am nothing more than the earth bound reflection of you." 

Death stared at him for a moment, astounded that he dared to make such a comparison. Something inside of her suddenly snapped and she gave into her anger. "You are not me," she hissed. "Not in the slightest. How DARE you presume that you have the same purpose as the Endless, let alone think that you are even the palest shadow of me?" Her voice rose as she continued. She pointed at her chest, "I do not indiscriminately take life. I merely guide the dead to the afterlife. I do not take life and kill just to feel a sword in my hands or to have the smell of fresh spilled blood fill my nose. You," she said poking him in the chest, "are nothing more than an animal. No you are worse than an animal. An animal kills for food or to defend its home or

family. You kill just to kill."

He shoved her hand away and laughed. "Oh you are so wrong, my dear. I have risen above animal. Even above man. I have become," he threw his head back and his arms out wide, "a GOD!"

"A god?" Death asked, laughing in disbelief. He lowered his hands and looked at her with a glare cold enough to freeze water. "You don't actually see yourself as a god, do you? I have known men and gods and demons in my long existence. And you are no god." She crossed her arms in front of her and glared back at him. "You are not even fit to lick the boots of a god. No, if I had to equate you to one of the three at this very moment, you have fallen to the rank of demon. And even that might be considered an insult to the demons."

Methos felt his anger rise even more and his face become flushed with rage. He balled his hands into fists to keep himself from reaching out and trying to strangle her. "Just where to you come off showing up here full of insults and dictating on how I should run my life? You randomly appear in my life every couple hundred years, share a drink or two with me, and then disappear on your happy little way," he motioned with his hand with dismissive circles. "Or you come and take those I love and care about away from me before I've had any chance to have them. You seem to believe that it is your right to run my life and tell me how to live it. Well I have news for you," he poked his the index finger of his right hand into the middle of her chest. "I am the master of my own destiny. I do not cater to the whims and wishes of beings that use the living as puppets for their own amusement, to be forgotten when longer interesting. This is my life, Death, and I want you to stay the hell out of it and leave me alone." He poked her so hard that he forced her to stumble backwards and land in the sand at his feet. With an air of superiority he turned on his heel and stormed off towards his brothers in arms.

Death mustered what dignity she had left as she rose to her feet, brushing the sand from her clothing. She stood on the dune and glared at Methos' back as he walked away from her. Her anger had risen to point where she shook with rage. 

Rather than risk herself and do something she would later regret, Death growled in exasperation and disappeared into her realm.

************************

Some time later, Death returned to the dunes above the camp of the Horsemen. She watched four riders returning, a large group of slaves in tow.

"Brother!" she cried looking up at the sky. "I do not stand in my gallery, nor do I hold your sigil, but if you consider yourself a being of any intelligence or brains, you will attend to me. NOW! Dream show yourself!"

"**You called**?" a voice asked as a swirl of smoke appeared before her. The smoke began to take form and her brother materialized.

"You had better believe I called, brother. I want you to stop it and stop it now."

Dream looked down at his eldest sister, confusion written on his highly chiseled face. "**Stop what**?"

"The dream you created for Methos over a thousand years ago. It has to end." She placed her hands on her hips for emphasis.

"**The dream I created**?" Dream repeated blankly. He shook his head. "**I don't understand**."

"A thousand years ago I asked you to create a dream to help Methos escape from Despair. What did he ask for?" Death demanded, tapping her foot with impatience.

The younger of the two Endless stared off into space for a moment, ignoring the rage that was emanating from his sister while he recalled events. "**Oh yes. He asked for vengeance. Said he dreamed of exacting revenge on those who killed his family. Of introducing them to your realm**." He looked down at her**. "I did as you asked. I granted his dream. Why are you so angry?**"

Death reached up and grabbed hold of her brother's ear. "Let me show you, brother dear." She led him to center of the camp. "Watch," she ordered. For a few moments, all Dream could see what the collection of tents that made up the camp. Then Methos rode in. He came to a halt in front of one of the tents, dismounted and removed a large, rolled up carpet from the back of his horse. Dropping it with an audible thud, he unrolled it, spilling the contents, a brown haired woman, on the ground.

"Surprise, you're not dead," he hissed. "Your kind is hard to kill." He leaned down and offered her his hand to help her to her feet. Dream and Death watched as the woman drew a bronze knife from Methos' belt and lunged at him with it. He grabbed her wrist and drew her against him. "You'll have to try harder than that," he drolled as if bored by her actions. He disarmed her with little effort and shoved her away.

The two Endless continued to watch the scene play out before them. Death shook with barely controlled rage, while Dream stood there emotionlessly as the woman demanded that she be taken to her people and Methos indicated that they were among the pile of skulls on the edge of the camp. He then indicated that along with the people of her tribe, she had also been killed.

****

"She's an Immortal as well?" Dream asked.

Death nodded. "Only she doesn't know that and it appears that Methos is not about to share that little bit of knowledge.

"You live because I wish it," they heard Methos tell the woman. "And you stay alive as long as you please me." He reached out with his left hand and rubbed the woman's neck. In an act of defiance, she shoved it away from her. Methos countered with a strong slap of this right hand that knocked her to the ground. "That did not please me." He then knelt down and ran his hand up her leg and under her dress. The woman looked away, revulsion and disgust marring her pretty face. He looked her in the eyes to make sure she was listening to him. "I am Methos. You live to serve me, never forget that." Before he could go any further in

proving his dominance over the woman, an argument broke out amongst his brothers. Methos left the woman lying in the sand and went to deal with the problem.

Death turned to her brother. "Do you see?" she asked gesturing towards Methos. "See what that dream has done to him. That, that… thing is not my friend. The dream you created for him has turned him into a nightmare. End the dream." Her voice began to crack, "Give me back my friend."

Dream looked down at his sister and saw tears threatening to fall from her endlessly blue eyes. Never in his entire existence had he seen her in such an emotional state. He then turned his gaze towards the Immortal who meant so much to her. She was right, Methos was not the same man he had met a thousand years ago. He had indeed become the stuff of nightmares.

"**To uncreate a dream a complex as his is not something I can do over night. It took a thousand years for it to become what it is today. While I do not think it will take as long to undo it, it will take some time**," he confessed.

"He's Immortal and we are Endless. Time is something we both have abundance of," she pointed out.

"**Very well**," he said nodding and then looking back at her. "**I have never had experience with a dream that has lasted as long as your friend's. I will do what I can to correct the damage it has caused. As I said, it will take time. I must return to the Dreaming and start working on a solution**." With that, he disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Death watched Methos for a few more minutes before returning to her own realm.

*****************

Destiny walked through his garden, treading the labyrinthine paths that cris-crossed the lawns. As he reached a crossroads, he felt the book in his arms begin to stir. He held it out in his palms as a wind took hold of the book. Pages turned with purpose and he made no effort to stop them. When the book stopped on a specific page, Destiny looked down to read the passage: 

__

As the months following his confrontation with Death progressed, Methos found himself losing interest in the life of the Horsemen. For reasons he could not explain, he was no longer consumed by the drive for power and domination. His bloodlust faded and he began to long for a quieter existence.

__

And when Methos slept, he dreamed a dream of peace.

Destiny nodded to himself. All things happen in their time, he thought to himself as he closed the book and continued on his walk.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	5. part five

****

Part Five: _ In which old friends come back together_

*********************************************

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due."

The Season of Mists Episode 1 by Neil Gaiman, p. 18 panel 1

*********************************************

The night was made for reveling. The crisp, clean scent of the Aegean danced languidly on the evening breeze, mingling with the light, carefree fragrances of the nearby flower garden. The music of the bards and the laughter of the partygoers carried to the heights of Olympus.

Methos smiled. It had been too long since he last visited the lands of the Greeks and he was determined to enjoy himself properly. The day had started out with the wedding of his young friend Orpheus to the beautiful Eurydice and was ending with a party that would make even Dionysus jealous.

The Immortal scanned the crowd, looking for some lovely maiden to woo into joining him for a little private celebration. He felt his heart leap into his throat when he heard a soft voice behind him.   
  
"Looking for anything in particular?"

He spun around to see a woman standing before him. Her long black hair fell in waves down her back, framing her pure, white face perfectly. The black chiton she wore, while cut loose, accentuated the long curves of her body wonderfully, and the small gold ankhs that dangled from her ears and around her neck twinkled merrily in the firelight. She looked up, met his eyes and smiled at him with genuine warmth and affection. Methos found himself smiling back at her.

He took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips. "I was looking to find the most beautiful woman here. Instead, she finds me." Death's smile grew at his gallantry. "Every time I see you, my dear, you look more and more lovely."

"You always did have a way with words," she teased.

"Comes from spending so much time in the company of talented bards. So what brings you here this evening?" He hesitated and his smile faded. "Have you come for me?"

She shook her head slightly. "No, Methos, I have not. Not yet anyway. I would be remiss in my familial duties if I did not come to the wedding. Young Orpheus is my nephew."

Methos couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "Your nephew?"

Death nodded with a smile. "Oh, don't look so surprised. It is possible for the Endless to have children. Oprheus is Dream's son. Destruction's boy is off terrorizing the far-east and Desire… don't get me started on that brood!"

"And what about you?" Methos asked, looking down at her with a mischievous smile. "Do you have any children?"

She looked up at him and raised a highly manicured eyebrow quizzically. "Do you honestly see me as the maternal type?"

He laughed. "No, I suppose I don't." He turned his attention to the people laughing and dancing around the fire. Orpheus was swinging Eurydice around, who in turn was laughing too hard to make her protests believable. "Do you ever long for such a love?" Methos asked.

Death followed his gaze. "Not really. I'm too busy to have a 'great love'. I'll leave the areas of wishes and loves to my siblings. Besides," she added squeezing his hand, "you're the only man for me."

"Tease," he replied squeezing back. 

They stood, holding hands, in silence, watching the festivities. Methos' mind whirled. It had been over three centuries since he had last exchanged words with Death; a battle of words that would live in his thoughts until his dying day. He wondered if she remembered it as well. 

Several minutes later, he felt her gaze on him. He turned back to her and broke the silence. "What?" he asked, letting go of her hand.

"Nothing," she said. "It's just good to see you again, my friend." She raised her hand and caressed his check. "Greece agrees with you. You are once again the Methos I met so long ago."

Methos looked down at the ground. She did remember. He cursed himself for being so stupid as to think that she would forget. She was a member of the Endless. Of course she would remember. A wave of guilt flooded over him as he remembered how he had acted towards her the last time they spoke.

"Um," he stammered, "about the last time…" 

Death raised a finger to his lips. "You don't need to say it. I know." 

He looked at her and removed her hand from his face. "Just hear me out, all right?" She nodded, total acceptance written on her face. "I behaved badly. To quote you, I was a monster." He suppressed the growing urge to flee, or, at the very least, fidget. He may have been the terror of the known world at one point, but he could never forget who and what she was. She was Death of the Endless, second eldest of a race more powerful than the gods. She was his best friend. For the last reason alone, he needed to apologize for his actions. Unfortunately he was having trouble finding the words. 

"Methos, if it's too difficult…"

"Will you shut up and let me do this?" he snapped, though his voice remained without a harsh edge. "It's hard enough doing this without you saying I don't have to. You're wrong. I do need to say it."

"Then say it."

Methos took in a deep breath. "You were right, I was wrong. I'm sorry," he said quickly as he exhaled. Then in a quiet voice he added, "There's no excuse for the way I treated you."

"Apology accepted," she said lightly.

"I still don't know what came over me," he explained, sadness coloring his voice. "Before I met Kronos, I had killed men, but never had I taken such… pleasure in it. I became a completely different man."

It was Death's turn to look at the ground. "Actually, Methos, there was a reason for it."

"For what?"

She looked back up at him. "For your actions. For your sudden change in personality."

Methos felt his heart sink. "What do you mean?"

Death looked around. "Let's go sit down and talk," she said taking his hand and leading him to a bench on the far side of the bonfire. Methos felt his stomach wrap around his spine. Her nervousness could only mean that what she was about to say was bad.

"So what is it?" he asked after they were seated. Death looked down at her hands, folded daintily in her lap. He reached out, placed his forefinger under her chin and lifted it so that she had to look at him. "We've been friends too long to keep secrets. I'm sure that whatever it is, I can handle it."

She smiled nervously at him. "You're right. We've been friends for too long for you not to know." Here eyes met and held his as she continued. "I'm the reason you became part of the Horsemen."

Methos dropped his hand and leaned back in startled disbelief. "I…don't understand."

"Think back to just before Kronos found you. Back, to when Inianni was killed," she said softly. Methos allowed his mind to drift back through the centuries to when his family had been slaughtered. "Do you remember how distraught you were?" 

He nodded, though his eyes glazed over as his mind replayed the images. The emptiness that he felt at his wife's death flooded through him. "I remember," he whispered.

"You had fallen into the realm of my sister, Despair. The longer you stayed there, the harder it would have been to get you out. You spurned my offer of help and turned your back on our friendship; not that I am blaming you. You had every right to do so. You are, after all, only human." A small teasing smile played at the corners of her mouth, but Methos ignored her attempt to lighten the mood. 

"The only way," she continued, saddened by his lack of response, "that I could have physically removed you from Despair's clutches was to take you into my realm."

"So why didn't you?" he asked, the tone of his voice flat and distant.

"Because, it wasn't your time to join me," she explained. "When it's your time to journey to the sunless lands, you'll know." 

Methos turned his gaze towards her. "But that doesn't explain how my becoming involved with Kronos and his damned fool ideas was your fault."

Death sighed. "When you refused to let me help you, I just couldn't stand idly by and watch you waste away. You mean too much to me to let you do that. But Despair wasn't about to just let you go. I needed to find a way to help you get yourself out."

Despite the warm air and the proximity of the bonfire, a cold chill danced across Methos' spine. "What did you do?"

"I asked my brother to give you a dream that would help you leave Despair," Death murmured, guilt heavily coloring her voice. 

A memory rose to the surface of Methos' consciousness. A man, tall and thin, with a voice as dark as a starless sky. "So tell me, Methos, what do you dream of?" he had asked. 

"And at that time I dreamt of revenge; of causing the world to hurt as much as I did," Methos said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He turned his gaze towards her. Shock, hurt, rage all conflicted within the golden depths of his eyes.

"We had no idea that the dream he granted you would last so long," she added quickly. "Dream had never dealt with an Immortal before. According to him, for mortals even the longest lasting dream lasts no more than sixty years. He and I never considered what the repercussions would be by granting such a dream to an Immortal. It was almost a thousand years before I knew what had happened. I made him stop the dream as soon as possible."

"But only after thousands of people lay dead because of me," he commented glaring at her.

"I'm sorry. I was only trying to help you get over your grief. I never thought…"  
  
"No you didn't. Maybe this will teach you Endless to stop interfering with the lives of us humans." He sighed deeply before proceeding. "I accept that you did what you did to help; that you thought you were acting on my best interest. But I am reserving the right to be irrationally and inexplicably upset about it. And I am upset Death. More than upset. I'm angry as hell. It is taking all of my self-control not to explode [on you] right here."

She looked up at him, her big blue eyes clearly showing her dismay. She opened her mouth to say something, but he raised his hand to cut her off. His voice grew flat and cold. "But I won't," he continued. "Not because I don't want to. Not because we're friends. But because I am sitting at the celebration of the wedding of a dear friend of mine and I will not ruin it because of my temper. A temper I didn't know I had until you 'helped' me. But I…"

Before he could continue, the two immortal beings were joined by Orpheus. "Methos, my friend," the bard said, clapping his hand on Methos' shoulder before sitting down next to him. "You never told me you knew my aunt, Teleute."

Methos smiled at his friend. "And you never told me who your relations are." Orpheus blushed slightly at the admonishment. "For your information, I have known your aunt for as long as I can remember." Orpheus looked questioningly at Death, who nodded in agreement.

"I'm glad. Tonight is for celebrating and I want all the people I care about to be happy."

The Immortal smiled at the bard. The young man had every right to be happy and wanting his loved ones to be so as well. Unfortunately, happy was the last thing Methos could be described as. He needed to get away and think. 

"I'll let the two of you have some family time together," he said as he stood up.

Orpheus looked up at him. "Don't leave because of me."

"I'm not, my friend," Methos said placing a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. "I find the need to stretch my legs. And now that you are here I can be assured that a lady as lovely as your aunt will not be left alone." 

Before either of his friends could argue, Methos turned and walked away.

*************************

Far enough away from the revelry that he would not be constantly bothered, Methos stood in a small copse of trees. The temper he had fought to control while in the presence of others boiled to the surface and he slammed his right fist into a nearby sapling.

How could she do that to him? 

His assault on the tree grew heavier_. _

She had no right to play with him like that! 

Bark flew as the tree stood against the barrage. 

Just where does she get off playing with his life like it's some kind of toy? That accursed, meddling woman! 

Something in his hand cracked.

Methos sagged to the ground, his anger spent. He looked down and watched as his bloodied and broken hand sparked and began mending itself back together. "But that's the problem, isn't it?" he muttered to himself. "She's not a woman. She may look and feel like the most beautiful woman you've ever met; she may talk and act like any other human you've known. But in the end, she's not human."

He may have played the part of Death superbly, but at the end of the day, he was still Methos. She on the other hand, really was Death. 

The rational part of him knew that what he had told her was true. He did understand that she did what she did because she thought she was helping him. And a small part of him appreciated the gesture. But another part of him, the part that a thousand years ago he never would have guessed he had, was glad she did it.

He could have left the Horsemen earlier than he did. There had been plenty of opportunities to do so. But he had chosen to stay. Not out of some loyalty to Kronos and the others. Not out of fear of what his brothers would do if he left. Not out of some misguided need for revenge. That had been taken care of shortly after they formed the Horsemen. He had stayed because he liked it. It was something that he was good at. It was a power thing. The power over life and death. The power over another being. It was a heady rush that intoxicated him. They saw; they wanted; they took. It was the only rules they lived by. Even now, centuries after he had walked away from that life, that small part of his psyche still craved for it.

When Kronos reappeared a century ago, trying to resurrect the Horsemen, Methos had been tempted to go back. Tempted but not swayed. He wanted more out of life. There had to be more than raping and killing. He had told Kronos that. But the scarred fool wouldn't hear of it.

Methos looked towards the south, the direction of the island monastery that was home to the well he had locked his brother in. He should have taken his head. But he couldn't. Not for lack of opportunity; but rather out of an act of conscience. If he judged Kronos worthy to die, he judged himself so as well. After all, they had been brothers. In spirit, in arms, in blood, in every way that mattered. If the crimes Kronos had committed were so bad that they warranted his execution, then Methos deserved to die beside him, and he was not ready to break free of the mortal coil. Not yet anyway.

He looked back towards the area of the bonfire. From where he sat he could just barely make out the shape of Death sitting next to her nephew. His life was certainly an interesting one. How many people could say that they were on a first name basis with Death and of those how many could count her as friend? If there were any, there weren't many.

"Looking back," he asked himself, "would you change any of it if you could?" He laughed at the question. "No, not really," he told himself. The experience had made him who he was. It was as much a part of him as his Immortality was. He regretted some of his actions while he rode with his brothers. There were things that he had done that haunted his dreams. But to change the experience would be to change the man. And, despite everything, he was beginning to like who he was becoming.

Leaning back against the tree he had abused earlier, Methos looked up at the stars. Like Death, they were one of the few constants in his life. Death…beautiful Death. He knew that he couldn't stay mad at her for long. But he wasn't going to tell her that anytime soon. After all, he did have his pride to think about.

He sat there, beneath the stars, contemplating just how long he would wait before he "officially" forgave her. It would have to be long enough that she realized that he was mad at her, but not so long as to destroy the friendship.

Methos' thoughts were interrupted by a loud, anguished cry. He jumped to his feet, looking for the source of the cry.

"Oh, gods, no!" Orpheus' voice called through the trees. Methos ran in the direction of his friend's keening. As he cleared the trees, he saw Orpheus kneeling over the limp body of his bride. Methos quickly made his way to his friend's side. Taking Eurydice's wrist in his hand, the Immortal felt for a pulse. When he felt none, he carefully lowered her hand back down.

"How?" he asked softly.

Orpheus looked up at him, eyes red with tears. "An asp," he said between sobs, indicating with his chin towards the remains of the serpent. "What…what I d…don't understand is w…what she was doing out here."

Methos looked down at Eurydice. She looked so peaceful, as if lost in slumber. He looked back up at his friend. "Perhaps she needed to clear her head and get away from the press of people."

"Perhaps," Orpheus answered, his voice barely a whisper. Methos put his arm around the young man and allowed him to weep against his shoulder.

"Orpheus," a soft, familiar voice said. Methos looked up to see Death standing across from them. Her face radiated the sadness she felt.

"You," Orpheus spat as he lurched to his feet. Methos rose to put himself between his two friends. "How could you do this to me? To us? I'm your nephew! Doesn't family mean anything to you?"

Death took a step forward. "Orpheus, I…" 

Methos held up a hand towards her to stop her."Let me take care of this," he advised. She looked from him to her nephew and back before conceding with a nod. "Come, my friend, why don't we go talk," he said gently as he turned the bard around. Orpheus allowed his friend to lead him away from his wife's body. Others from the party were approaching and could take care of Eurydice.

When the two men entered the copse of trees where Methos had been earlier, Orpheus collapsed to the ground sobbing. "I hate her. How could she do this to me?" he demanded.

Methos knelt in front of his friend. "I know exactly how you feel," he gently said.

Orpheus looked up at him, brown eyes meeting green. "It wasn't your aunt who took her."

"No, it wasn't," Methos said shaking his head slightly. "But your aunt happens to be my best friend. And you are not the first man to have her take his bride."

The young bard looked up at him in amazement. "And you are still friends with her?"

Methos nodded. "It hasn't always been easy. It took me a long time to forgive her after the last time she took my wife."

"The last time? You mean there's been more than one?"

"Yes," Methos said softly as the faces of those he had lost flashed before his eyes. He looked at his friend. "I struggled for a long time not to blame her for taking them."

"I will always blame her. She had no right to take Eurydice so soon."

"Orpheus, my friend, she's Death, or have you forgotten who you are related to? It's her responsibility to guide us when our time comes. She has no choice as to when that happens. It's nothing personal." As he was saying the words, Methos realized that he actually believed them.

"But we had promised each other a lifetime." Orpheus said, his voice close to breaking again.

Methos heard the words that Death had said to him when he made the same protest. "And you got a lifetime. Your aunt once told me that for some a lifetime is measured in minutes, for others, years." He placed a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder. "You need to be thankful that you had Eurydice in your life at all, and treasure the memories of the times you had with her. If you remember her, part of her will still live. That is how we grant immortality to our loved ones, by remembering them when they have crossed over."

For a long time, Orpheus stared at Methos, not moving or saying anything. Finally, he nodded once. Methos offered him a smile, and gently helped him back to his feet. "I will remember her, Methos," Orpheus declared.

Methos nodded. "You will, and in time, the pain will fade."

Methos led Orpheus back to the wedding party, knowing that he had finally been able to lay to rest his own anger.

__

TO BE CONTINUED…


	6. Part 6

****

Part Six: _In which old friends find each other again._

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"He heard long ago, in a dream, that one day in every century Death takes on mortal flesh, better to comprehend what the lives she takes must feel like, to taste the bitter tang of mortality: that is the price she must pay for being the divider of the living from all that has gone before, all that must come after."

-Season of Mists by Neil Gaiman. Episode 0, p.11 panel 1.

***************************************

London. He hated London. Granted it wasn't nearly as bad as Paris- not even the French liked Paris. But he wasn't in France. He was in London and it was so damn...English. 

He found it hard to fathom that the current largest empire in the world had its capital in a city like London. An imperial capital was supposed to be a grand example of human achievement, to inspire its citizens to greatness. Cairo, Rome, Athens, the Forbidden City, Macchu Picchu... those were cities that shone, cities meant to lead empires. But London? 

Everywhere he looked he saw smoke and soot and dirt. It was no wonder the English were so stuffy. How could they not be when their home was clothed in shades of gray and muted browns.

Methos looked up at the sky as he pulled his coat tighter around him. Its azure hues gave promise of a nice day, though the wind was trying to beg otherwise. At least it wasn't raining, which for mid-April was a small miracle. The wind gripped at his coat again. He cursed it silently as he fought to keep the garment closed, all the while wishing he hadn't told his coachman that his services wouldn't be needed until that evening. It was days like this that he longed for the sun-bleached sands of the desert with a good strong horse beneath him.

As he trudged away from the King's Theatre he sighed. He had tried to see if he could get his money back for the opera tickets in his pocket. He wasn't overly fond of the opera, especially Gounod, but Sarah had expressed such a desire to see "Faust", so, with the hopes of winning the affections of the pretty redhead, he had purchased tickets for that evening's performance.

What young Sarah Kirkland had failed to mention to him was the existence of a large bull of a fiancé by the name of Joseph Drake. Drake darkened his door earlier that morning with very strict instructions to stay away from his betrothed. Methos, always one to avoid the potential for death, regardless of how temporary, readily agreed. However, that left him with two tickets for a production that he had had no real desire to see in the first place.

The man at the theater had been extremely polite when he told Methos that all ticket sales were final. His politeness only irritated the Immortal more. Damn English. 

He continued on his journey, paying little attention to his surroundings. The peddlers, street urchins, and the flower girls had all been there for the two years he had been in London and he didn't doubt that they would be there long after the year 1888 was done and gone. He stepped to the right to make room on the pavement for an approaching pedestrian. In his attempt to be polite, he failed to notice the woman who was crouched down to examine a flower girl's wares and promptly tripped over her.

He landed, face first, into a large basket of roses. He groaned as he tried to extract himself from the flora. Damned English didn't even have the decency to remove the thorns before they sold the flowers. *_That's it_,* he thought to himself, *_I'm moving to Corsica!* _

"Oh dear, are you all right, sir," he heard a soft, melodic voice ask. He pushed himself up and out of the flowers only to lose his balance again and land so that he sat, no sprawled, on the cobblestones of the avenue.

His eyes fell onto the diaphanous skirts of a woman's gown. The fabric was either of a really dark navy or black taffeta. He allowed his eyes to trail upwards, absorbing the fullness of the woman's hips, to the tiny corseted waist, up to the fullness of her fabric covered bosom, to the pale white complexion of her delicate neck, up to the sensually full red lips and finally up to the deep blue eyes. 

Death smiled down at him as he registered whom it was that stood before him.

Methos looked up at her and returned the smile. Carefully he got back to his feet. "Depends, my dear. Have you come for me?" he asked as he brushed the dirt from his clothing.

She shook her head. "Definitely not today, my friend." 

"Then, I find myself suffering from nothing more than a bad case of clumsiness and a slightly wounded ego," he responded, taking her hand in his and bending over to kiss it gently. For the first time in millennia he noticed that her hands were warm and that her skin had a faint rosy tint to it. Dismissing the observations, he stood back up and looked at her. "It is good to see you again. As always, you are the most beautiful woman around."

Death blushed under his flattery.

Before he could continue with the verbal flirting, the young flower girl spoke up. "'Ere! Look out! Watch where you're goin'!" She bent down to pick the flowers out of the gutter. "An 'ole bloody day's profit in the gutter. May as well not bloody well go to work some days!"

Methos reached into his pocket and scattered a handful of gold coins into her basket. The flower girl picked up the coins, counting the amount as she did.

''Ere!' she said accusingly as she looked up at him. "That's five sovereigns, that is! Wot you tryin' to pull?"

Methos smiled at her. "To cover the cost of the damaged roses."

The flower girl took that in while holding the coins in her clenched fist. She looked from her hand, up to Methos and then to Death. She shook her head as she leaned towards Death and whispered loud enough for Methos to hear, "You oughta watch yourself with 'im, gel. 'E's off 'is 'ead, 'e is!" 

Death smiled. "I'll be careful." 

The flower girl shook her head again and mumbled something about the upper class and madness. With that, she picked her basket up and hurried around the corner, as if fearful that Methos' madness was catching.

As Methos started to stand, he saw an undamaged rose that the flower girl had missed. He picked it up, turned towards Death and presented her with the flower.

She smiled, obviously touched by his continued gallantry. She reached up and accepted the flower from him. 

"Ouch!" she cried as she let go of the flower and allowed it to drop to the ground. Methos was startled by her reaction. Never in their long acquaintance had he ever heard her cry out in pain.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern coloring his voice as he stepped towards her to examine her injury.

"It's nothing," she said dismissively. "I just pricked my finger on a thorn."

"Let me see," he said reaching for her hand.

She pulled away from his reach, "I said it was nothing."

"Which one of us is the doctor here? Just let me see your finger," he scolded lightly. Death sighed and offered her hand for him to inspect. On the tip of her index fingers was a small drop of blood.

Methos automatically reached into his pocket and extracted his handkerchief. With the gentle touch found only in those whose calling was that of healing, he applied pressure to the small wound. It was only after he had pulled back the cloth that his mind fully registered what had just occurred. He looked from the spot of red on the white linen in his hands up to her, his expression one of confusion.

"How can this be?" he asked her. 

Taking his arm, Death guided Methos along the walkway. "Walk with me, old friend," she said jovially. "It has been a long time since I last walked the streets of London with a handsome man."

They walked in silence for several blocks. Methos' mind swam as he tried to rationalize what had happened. The Endless don't bleed. But she did. *_That does it_,* Methos thought, *_I need answers._* Tightening his grip on her arm, he led her to a nearby bench and guided her to sit down. He stared at her, trying to form the questions into actual words.

"What's going on here?"

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently.

"What I mean is, first off you were bleeding. And don't try to tell me it was my imagination. I know blood when I see it. Second, your hands are warmer than I remember them ever being and your skin actually has a rosy glow to it. This isn't making any sense," he babbled. Death opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. "And don't tell me it's nothing."

Death sat for a moment, lost in thought, before she answered his question with a question. "Methos…"

He interrupted her; "I haven't used that name in a while. I'm Dr. Benjamin Adams now."

She nodded and continued, "Benjamin, how long have we known each other?"

Methos blinked, confused by the turn in the conversation. "Um…as long as I can remember, which is about 5,000 years."

Death nodded. "Actually longer than that, but why argue little details? So we've known each other for a very long time." Methos nodded. "And you're saying that in all that time I have never told you about what I must do once every hundred years?"

"My dear, you may indeed be my oldest and best friend, but in all the time I have known you, you have told me very little about yourself," Methos pointed out. "You know everything there is to know about me. But the knowledge I have about you could fill a teacup with room to spare."

"Touché," Death said. 

"So are you going to tell me what's going on?"

She sighed in resignation. Slowly she looked up and met his eyes. Blue to green. Not once blinking as she told him, "Once every hundred years, I am required by the Powers That Be to take on mortal form."

"Why?"

Death smiled. "The better to understand what it is that I take. That is the price I must pay for being the one who divides the living from the dead," she said with an almost bored tone of voice, as if reciting something learned by rote.

"How long does this mortality last?" Methos asked, intrigued by the notion that his unchanging friend was now like him…flesh and blood.

"Twenty-four hours."

"And you've been doing this your whole existence?" His mind was a whirl of thoughts.

She nodded. "I have been many things - plant, animal, person. I've experienced almost all of it."

"Almost?" he asked incredulously.

"Only doing this once every century makes it difficult to have lived as every living thing on this planet. Do you have any idea how many species of plants there are in the jungles of South America alone? Then there are all the forms of insects. So, yes my friend, there are a few things I haven't tried… yet." The teasing in her voice made Methos chuckle.

"In that case," he said standing up and offering her his hand, "would you allow me the honor of being your escort for the day?"

"I could ask for no better guide," she said taking his hand.

Methos' smile grew. Together they set out on a guided tour of the London he knew. He took her to Westminster Abby to see the magnificent architecture and artworks there. He took her to the Tower of London, and described to her the historical significance of the building. While standing outside Traitor's Gate he told her of how he had witnessed the execution of Lady Jane Grey, who had resided for a time inside the Tower.

As they walked, they talked. They talked about life, and what it was like to be alive. For the first time in a very long time, Methos was able to look at the world, not through the eyes of an ancient being, soul-wary and sad, but through the eyes of someone uncorrupted by life. Through Death, he was able to see things with wonder and excitement. He was experiencing life as if it were not something he had done every day for fifty centuries. It was a wonderfully refreshing change.

As they talked, Methos realized that Death was more than just a friend. He cared for her, deeply. For as long as he could remember, a small part of him had compared the women in his life to her. He had always known that anything other than friendship was something that could never be. She was Endless. While he was Immortal, there is a distinct difference. So he had taken the feelings he had for her and transmuted them into something he could deal with.

But now, things were different. Even if they were only for twenty-four hours. They were different. She was human. She was the woman he had longed for. But he had less than a day to be with her. He wanted to cry out in rage. To demand to know why the Powers That Be tormented him with a taste of what he longed for but not let him have his fill. It wasn't fair.

But who ever said life was fair? He had lived long enough to know better.

He reached into his coat pocket for his watch and discovered his long forgotten opera tickets. He looked at them and then to the woman walking next to him.

"Is that the only dress you have?" he asked casually.

Death looked at him, caution warring with curiosity in her eyes. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Why?"

"Because that means that we need to go shopping before we dine," he answered as he moved to flag a hansom for hire. Within moments they had been whisked towards the shopping district of London.

Methos felt like a child again as he watched the shop girls fawn over his friend. The excitement of her trying on gowns was infectious. He only wished that he had the time to have one made just for her. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

Eventually a new dress was selected. Death tried to protest that the expense was not necessary, that there was no point in wasting good money on something that she would only wear once. But Methos would not hear of it.

"What's the point of having money if you cannot use it to spoil a beautiful woman? Allow me to spoil you," he told her as he paid the shopkeeper.

He carried the new dress for her and together they headed back out to the bustling streets of London. "Now where?" she asked.

"Now you allow me to take you back to my lodgings so that we can get properly attired for dinner and a night at the opera," he said smiling. Her face took on the expression of giddy anticipation. She looked like a child on Christmas morn. Her excitement was infectious. And for the first time since he bought the tickets, Methos found himself looking forward to the opera.

It only took a few moments to flag a cab and be whisked off to his city residence. His housekeeper, Mrs. Roberts, gave him one of her famous disapproving frowns when he arrived with a strange woman in tow and asked her to help his friend get dressed. Mrs. Roberts was always frowning at him and reminding him of the "proper way" to do things. He would normally just smile and thank her for her patience with him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that after 5,000 years, he was rather set in his ways.

Methos dressed as quickly as he could. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. His palms were sweating and the trembling in his hands was making difficult to tie his necktie. 

"Will you look at yourself," he scolded to the reflection in the mirror. "Trembling and nervous like a young boy about to meet his bride for the first time. Imagine, getting this anxious over a woman." Methos chuckled as he walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs. "As you once said Old Man - she's not just some woman." 

He walked into the parlor and straight towards the carafe of brandy he kept on the sideboard. He carefully poured himself a generous mouthful of the amber liquid and downed it in one gulp. He sighed as he felt the warmth from the alcohol glide down his throat and radiate throughout his body.

Deciding that it would be best to wait for his companion in the hall, he set his glass down and left the room. No sooner had he crossed into the hallway and look up the stairs, than Death came into view. Methos felt his heart skip a beat and jump into his throat. Even though he had seen her in the dress, it was different this time. Mrs. Roberts had helped her with her hair and even managed to find some cosmetics. To say that she was breathtaking would have been an understatement.

And she didn't just descend the staircase, she floated down it. Based on her expression, he was able to guess that his amazement was clearly written on his face. When she reached the base of the stairs, he took her extended hand and brought it to his lips. 

"My dear, to say you are positively divine would be an insult. Words cannot express just how lovely you are," he said. She blushed. It was a good look on her. He clasped both of his hands around hers. "Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner and then to the opera?" She nodded and he motioned for the butler to bring her wrap. Methos carefully wound it around her delicate shoulders before accepting his own coat and gloves. After slipping on his gloves, he offered her his arm. She took it and together they headed out of the door and to his waiting coach.

They dined at one of the finest hotels in London. Methos found himself smiling more than he had in years. If someone had later asked him what he had had to eat, he would not have been able to answer. But, he could have said what she had had and what she thought of it all. Just like their tour of the city that afternoon, everything they did gave him the opportunity to experience life as if for the first time.

The joy of the night continued as they took in the London Opera's performance of "Faust." Methos found it funny… being an immortal, unageing being watching the tale of a man willing to give up his soul to be young again; to be immortal. The irony was hilarious. He even caught Death giggling every now and then.

During intermission he turned to her. "I know why I find this story funny, but I have to ask, what brought giggles to your lips?" he asked her.

"Their idea of the Devil," she explained. "I've known Lucifer Morningstar for his entire existence and he is nothing like this Méphistophélès character. Lucifer is far too refined. And what need does he have of going and buying souls? Those that should come to him, go to him. And cheating death? I'm not that much of a pushover." A small pout came to her lips. Methos had to resist the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss the pout away. 

The orchestra started playing the opening music of the second act, preventing him from giving into the desire. He turned his attention back to the stage, silently chastising himself for even thinking he could be so bold as to kiss her. He glanced over at her. If she had noticed his desire, she gave no indication. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, while willing the beating of his heart to slow down.

At several points during the rest of the production, Methos and Death had to stifle their giggles and snickers at the story. The looks they received from the other patrons told them that it was not supposed to be a comedy. Methos got the distinct impression that the other patrons did not believe their platitudes and apologies. He just shrugged it off. He didn't care. He was with a dear friend, having the time of his life.

As they exited the theater he turned to her. "Now what? If I were any kind of true gentleman I would take you home. But we both know me better than that."

She smiled at him. "Very true. I have so very little time left that I could not dream of spending it without you."

"Then what would you like to do?"

She stood there a moment, thinking. "I know it's a bit chilly, but how about a walk through one of the parks?" she offered.

Methos bowed deeply. "My lady, your wish is my command." He offered her his hand to assist her in climbing into the carriage. Just before climbing in himself, he ordered the driver to take them to Hyde Park. The driver nodded and waited for his employer to become comfortable before directing the horses away from the busy theater and into the relative peace and quiet of the park.

Upon arriving at the well-tended gardens of the park, Methos dismissed the driver. The driver tried to protest but Methos would not hear it. He wanted to be alone with her. Having an overprotective chaperone was not his idea of alone time. Eventually the driver conceded and drove away. Once again offering her his arm, they walked along the paths of the park.

For hours they talked. And in between talking they just enjoyed the comfortable silence that comes with a long friendship and familiarity. Methos could not believe how content he was just to walk through the wee hours of the night with her on his arm. It felt so right and natural. She was the one. The woman he had waited his whole life to find.

Steeling himself, he stopped their wanderings. She released his arm. "Methos, what's wrong?"

He turned so that he stood directly in front of her. "Nothing," he said, hoping to reassure her. He raised both his hands to cup her face. He ran his thumbs along her cheekbones and down her jaw line. He even reached up and played with an errant curl of hair. "Nothing's wrong. In fact, everything feels so right," he whispered.

Then before he lost the courage, he leaned down and kissed her. At first she stiffened but as he continued to gently kiss her, she relaxed and eventually molded her body against his. He wrapped his arm around her waist and deepened the kiss.

She was warm and tender against his lips. She tasted of sweet honey and she smelled of fine spring roses. He reveled in the sensation and delighted in finally having her in his arms. They were two halves of the same whole. It was perfection. 

She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him. Silently begging him to never stop. But like all good things, it came to an end and he pulled away. She shuddered and her body went limp in his arms as they broke apart. He looked down at her. Her blue eyes were open wide, yet unseeing. Her face had grown slack. She was gone.

He looked up to see the first rays of the morning sun cresting over the London skyline. A new day had dawned.

He had never told her how he really felt. And he never would. An opportunity lost forever. But he was content with it.

He heard a rustle that sounded like the beating of birds' wings.

"Thank you," he said to the presence he felt next to him. He couldn't look at his companion. It would ruin the moment. He cradled the lifeless body against his chest.

"For what?" she asked. 

"For giving me a lifetime."

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TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
